Anthem Anatheme
by Konerok Hadorak
Summary: I am not a man. Neither am I a weapon. I am an idea given flesh. That idea is death. In my hands I wield tools of terrestrial obliteration. In my heart, the eclipsing power of a dead god. My bullets are tributary rivers emptying into an ocean of possibilities. My blade is sharp and honed with secrets. I am a Warlock... a Guardian. And Guardians make their own fate.
1. Chapter 1: -Why is What is Where is Why-

**A/N: So this has been bouncing around in my head for quite some time. I started reading the _Silmarillion_ about a month ago, and though I haven't finished the book yet, my muse is joyously feeding from it! For those of you familiar with _Destiny_ , you'll know what I mean when I say that _Destiny: The Dark Below_ heavily reminded me of _Lord of the Rings,_ and I've considered making a story combining them both for some time. However, much to my dismay, I've seen only two, EXACTLY TWO crossovers involving the Lord of the Rings and Destiny. And I'm going to be perfectly honest... they're not written that well. But sadly, I know far less about Tolkein's universe than I'd like to admit, so I never felt adequately equipped to make such a story myself. I still don't, but I have spent that last several weeks reading up on pertinent lore. I've spent whole days just surfing the LOTR wikia and reading related passages in the books. I think I can, at the very least, begin now. So here it is, chapter one of my long desired story, _Anthem Anatheme._ Enjoy!**

 **P.S. Though this first chapter is done in the First-Person Present persepective, subsequent chapters may and probably will differ. Just FYI.**

* * *

I take my time relishing the cool water as it runs down my face. My fingers, gloved. My arms, gauntleted. But they feel natural all the same. I enjoy the cold that seeps into my hands. It calms me, sates me. The taste is pleasant and refreshing. My naked eyes open to examine my surroundings, though with no difference in sight since last I repeated the action.

It has been… Three weeks since I first arrived here. I know not where nor when I am. The confluxes of the Vex are by no means simple, and I am certain their labyrinthine mazes are the cause of my plight. But I worry not. I've seen the end of the universe as the Vex wish it. Wherever I am is some place they have no interest in, which makes it intrinsically interesting to me, simulation or not. So, I study.

I'm not a Hunter; taking stock of the land and my surroundings only garners me so much knowledge. My passion is in understanding, not of the world around me, but of the world around the world; of the universe and its clock-like intricacies.

Even so, I can learn nothing from the forest birds chirping and squirrels chittering. I have long since felt eyes upon me from afar, yet never once have their possessor come forth to challenge or greet me. I've begun to wonder if my senses have grown dull. Have I become to complacent in this strange, plain world? Am I the only sapient creature to walk its muddied stream banks and touch its aging barked trees?

Of course not. What a silly thought to think! But still, it romances my fantasies like a curious morsel. It whets my appetite but satiates nothing. So, I consume more of the world. I watch, wander, and wonder. I linger and loiter. I walk and I run. I breath in sights and exhale intrigue.

I rise from my knees and do not replace my helm. I enjoy viewing this world for what it is with mine own eyes, not through a digital or dimmed visor.

I continue to follow the river north with great white peaks of unknown mountains to the east rising to hedge my path. Through its rushing waters I could see no purchase to cross, and its strength was too great to swim against and breadth too far to leap. So, I walk on seeking northerly paths.

It was upon this path that I finally came across unfriendly company. I will not deign to call them "life" for such creatures, though living, did not deserve the name. Their foul disposition belied the darkness within them, and familiar hackles raised along my neck. They were few in number and small in stature. Their hobbled gates slowed them down and their gnashing teeth implied their hunger for freshly mauled meats.

I would instead bequeath the gift of steel. And I, with peals of thunder and flashes of lightning, damned the ground where they fell, black blood oozing and soiling the green undergrowth. It was over before it began. And so I took my time examining them and their effects. Roughly hewn animal pelts, crudely shaped curved blades both rusted and unclean, malformed physiques, and a singularly sinister aura. They were unnervingly similar, yet different from what I was already familiar with. My peace of mind gave way to suspicion, and my steps were thenceforth measured and eyes keen in their gaze.

I continue onward along the river's side, for at the very least I knew, where fresh water flowed, life congregated, and this land did not hold the corrupted taint that I would expect if it's only inhabitants where more of those pitiful wretches. Not that I mind my solitude. I was never one to taste its enjoyment in the past, I so rarely even had a moment to do so. Now I all I could ask for, and yet for all I appreciate it I feel... alone. Not alone in my individuality, but alone as if... as if every light in the galaxy was so very far removed from myself. I feel like a wanderer in a vast desert of night.

Speaking of, the nights here are _beautiful._ The stars are vibrant and blazing in the tapestry above, though foreign in every conceivable way. I trace their forms for a glimpse of familiar constellations, yet none seemed obvious, and even my spectral companion could find no link between their shapes. Nevertheless, they were fantastically luminous. Whenever I stop to rest, I watch them for hours.

* * *

The warm weather of late summer had wakened me to it's gentle caress, and from there the day devolved into a menacing game of hide and seek. The filthy little stunted gremlins were nowhere to be seen, but I felt, more so than saw, the observation of more keen eyes. I know not from where, only that they were fixated on myself. That I had not yet been attacked was only a sign of impending danger. Perhaps they meant no harm, but that is not a risk I am willing to take. So, I carry on my way with open eyes and ears.

And yet I cannot feel their peeping attentions as keenly as I had before. The hackles of my neck do not rise near as often. My instincts do not scream to me as loudly as before. Has their watch lessened? Or has their intent become neutral, or perhaps hidden? Instinct would only carry me so far. My feet on the other hand would carry me _much_ further. The foliage of the forests beside the river is foreign, with large trees untouched by naught but time reaching hive above to shadow the leafy earth. My hunger is sated by the berries that grow at the edge of the riverbanks, and those leaves which do not appear poisonous. Certainly not my first choice for sustenance, but I see so little fauna to hunt for meat. I believe the growlers (what I have taken to calling the impish little fiends) have either hunted them to scarcity, or they have scared them from the area. But I suppose the lack of life is a benefit to myself as well; if my hypothesis is correct, then the more life I _don't_ see, the more likely I am to come across _more_ growlers. Eradicating them was... refreshing. I can sense the faint traces of darkness in them. Not like the Eliksni who harried the City's walls and outskirts in olden days, but like the Hive, who embodied within themselves living catalysts of paracausal shadow.

I did not care for killing Eliksni. But Hive? I could kill Hive. A _lot_ of Hive.

Yet unlike the Hive, I do not see the typical corruption of the environment, so it is unlikely that they have established camp nearby. Perhaps I shouldn't compare too much. Misinterpreted comparison leads to fallacious presumption, and I prefer being _right_ to being _wrong._

The daylight burned bright, then burned vibrantly. Now it is setting beneath the canopy, it's final rays filtering through in beams no larger than my hand. I would ordinarily find a nice tree to climb and sleep in, but tonight I feel whimsically compelled to keep moving. So I do, my eyesight adjusting steadily to the darkness as I pick my way among the tees. My ever-present partner remains out of sight, obliging my enjoyment of the faint night air without the garish stark white light he could produce to aid me. In hindsight, I am glad to have set this precedent so early on in my arrival here.

In time, I see the faint pinpricks of light dancing between the silhouetted trees beyond. I feel my breath still as I realize it is no firefly's light. It is a torch. Torches mean other travelers. Only, I see _many_ such lights. I creep as close as I dare to see who it was.

The terrible gnashing of teeth, hissing, and barking calls tell me what they were before I actually see them. More growlers. Some twenty-odd beasts. This time, they're layering some sort of... tar, or pitch... (it's a thick, oily substance) onto the trees. One or two direct the others with harsh, unknown words, yet ever do their eyes the trees. Not the base where predators like myself reside, but rather the high-born branches above.

I'd heard tales of a species of animal that lived in certain parts of Earth that would descend on unsuspecting passers-by. "Drop Bears" I think they were called. Though there _is_ some debate on the nomenclature as there is also supposedly an identical species called "Koala." The texts aren't exceedingly clear on the subject.

All creatures learn to fear that which heralds the appearance of danger, even malformed mongrels like these. So what danger lay in the treetops that they feared more than on the ground? I watch as they smear more oil on the trees around them, spreading it on the forest floor between each trunk. I frown as I see their intent; I know a fuse when I see one. They planned on starting a forest fire. I look around me. The leaves that littered the forest floor are dry, and the bark on the trees are as well. They will burn well. But whatever these miscreants meaning was for the fire they were about to light, I know no good will be born of it. I could kill them, but how to do so without alerting the pack? They are spread out in throughout the hundred meters in front of me... No ballistics would end all of them fast enough before they tendered their ill-intended flame... Their spacing was just too far.

Ah! I must pick them off one by one, starting with the outliers and work my way in. Actually, the only real danger were those who bore the flames. That eased my task; kill the torch bearers, douse the flames, kill the rest as they stumble in the dark. And the weapon best suited for swift, silent death is a bow.

I duck behind a tree and command such a weapon to me. I extend my left hand and into it, it's slender curve fit into my grip. A bow hard fought for and earned by trial. I wonder how much death it had brought in the hands of its previous owner before it came into my possession. Its graceful form belied its lethality which I was about to demonstrate.

I withdraw an arrow and nock it. Carefully I creep about the darkness and spy my first target. I pause, step out of the shadow of the tree. It doesn't see me. I draw the bowstring back and let it loose. Death is almost instant. It falls tot eh ground dead. The torch falls with it. I check to see if my assassination caught any attention, but I hear to call of alarm. That is good. I dash past the corpse, waving a hand over the torch as I did, withdrawing the heat from it and lowering its ignition temperature to within a non-combustible level. The flame sputtered out like the life I just took.

I see another growler out of place. It dies as swiftly as the last. Rinse. Repeat. After my sixth strike, I hear their guttural utterances become more frenzied. No doubt they've noticed the distinct lack of light where their outer patrols should be. Now I was against the clock.

The two or three that spoke loudest and most often, if that _is_ what they were doing, are my first targets. Without a commander to instruct them, they seemed about as harmless as Thrall. Such fragile little fiends. I line up my shots carefully, utilizing the bow's innate strengths to remain undetected. For this bow is _strong._ Stronger than any I'd ever seen. And its arrows were capable of piercing even the thickest of hides... flesh far more dense than the trees I hid behind. Its reticle revealed their positions, and I fire through the trunks with pinpoint accuracy. I imagine their confusion at the impossible vectors the arrows were killing them from and heard as much from their surprised barks. Now their torch-bearers are down to a single, solitary member. But my advantage has turned against me; though I can see the enemy through the trees, I could not see their details; I knew not which bore the final torch. I peek out in time to see it ignite the pitch on the first tree and the fire begins to creep up the trunk almost instantly.

I step out of my cover and loose another arrow, catching two through their skulls with a single shot. All eyes turn to me with panic and rage. They brandish their weapons high as they come at me. I quick-nock another arrow and loose it into one's chest. It pierces through the armor and into the leg of another some twenty paces behind. The first to reach me receives a scorching palm to the face as he is sent flying back into its fellows, tumbling them to the ground.

Stealth broken, subtlety unnecessary now, I hold the bow in my left hand as I reach behind my back and withdrew my iron. Death cocooned in iron blazes from its barrel in cacophonous reports, dropping three with such force as to knock them off their feet. The sudden flashes of light and peals of canistered thunder strike them into a stupor, their confusion palpable as they either foolishly rush head on for the attack or backpedaled in panic. I kill the foolish first, then train in on the more intelligent, though no less damned. I reload with honed precision, ejecting the spent cartridge, sliding another into place, and with practiced familiarity issue a single flick of my wrist that snaps the break-action back into place.

They are scattering like the dried leaves beneath their feet. Five more rounds and I've killed everything in within reason. In the distance I see two or three stragglers making a break for the depths of the forest, though each in different directions. I won't catch them all. Still, twenty... two... out of twenty-five was still eighty-eight percent success. One more kill would have put me into the nineties, a realm I would feel considerably more satisfied in...

I holster my second weapon and make swift pursuit after one of the escapees. I idly rip an arrow out of the eye-socket of a dead growler as I pass by its corpse and load it into my bow. But my mind brings my body to a halt, my escaping quarry forgotten as a strange sense of concern fills my mind, though I can't imagine why so.

I stroke the base of the arrow between my fingers idly. That when I realized the origin of my trepidation. I look down, lifting the arrow to my eyes. This arrow wasn't mine. It is finely crafted, that I can tell even in the veritable darkness of the under-tree. Simple in design but the elegant curve of the flattened arrowhead was in stark contrast to my arrows, whose tips were a trinity of wide, razor sharp blades.

But if this was not my arrow, then where had it come from?

I recalled how the growlers had been peering up the forest's skirt at some unseen danger. Now I wonder if perhaps that danger had actually been real. No, I don't wander. I _know._ Whatever had fired this arrow had killed the creature I pulled it from. Which meant they were an excellent shot, even in this darkness. A master of the hunt, then?

The arrow was more visible now, light from the growing flames illuminating the killing ground with an ominous golden haze. I turned to regard it, placing the foreign arrow into my quiver before I move to the tree that had been set alight. With careful brushes, I once again pull the heat from the air, lowering the surface temperature of the tree and the pitch to below the ignition point. Working in sweeping motions, I slowly bring the blaze under control. Fortunately it had not spread too far above my reach. What was left was a black, charred stain on the side of the tree. Hopefully the tree would recover, but thankfully the fire hadn't spread to its leaves or to any neighboring living pillars.

I turn from my examination to the bodies around me. My night vision ruined from the fire, I decided not to bother collecting the bodies or burying them. Let them rot, and their bodies feed the organisms they had tried to destroy. Poetic justice, so to speak.

I close my eyes, forcing what little additional darkness my eyelids could provide to accelerate my night vision's return. When I open them again, it takes a moment to refocus. I realize I am not alone. There before me stands a creature of... curiously magnificent beauty. Even in the cover of shaded night and hood I can see the fascinating graceful shape of the face, the piercing eyes... and the strength of hands which hold bow and arrow to my cranium. They were so still, it takes a moment to realize there is indeed someone _actually_ standing there.

I am aware of more surrounding me. I turn and see four others lining up nocked arrows in my precise direction, their intent clear even to me, a stranger in a strange land; _do not move._

I don't. They're the first human looking creature I've encountered since I arrived and I have little intention of provoking violence. They do not speak, and instead regard me warily, as I do them.

I don't hear the steps of another as he... or she... walks up and with one hand on my wrist and the other on the weapon, not so subtly encourages me to release my weapon. I do so, if only to indicate my compliance. Another presence from behind me and to my right withdraws my pistol from my belt.

I turn my head in alarm as I see the pilferer step away with long strides. My eyes follow the hand that clutches the weapon and notes the manner in which he does so. So long as he holds it the way he is, he shouldn't set it off accidentally. As far as I have seen, firearms are a touch advanced from the knives and clubs wielded by the growlers. I am, of course, only assuming though.

Hands now emptied, I raise them in a gesture of peace. I do not know if I should speak first or wait.

I opt to wait and am rewarded after a time with a silky masculine voice. "What business does a man have in these woods? All alone and hunting goblins no less." The man steps around and into my vision and I see that perhaps he isn't a man at all. In many ways I liken him to an Awoken; he certainly possesses their particular grace of features and movement, but he also lacks their distinct pigment. Instead, his skin is as pale as my own, and _unlike_ me his ears are elongated and pointed at the ends. He also stands several inches taller than myself, and I'm by no means short in stature. Something about him discourages me from calling him human.

I feel surprise show on my face as I hear the familiar language. I had not expected that at all. I hide it as best I can and smile as disarmingly as I can manage. _"Arsonist..."_ I correct before considering his words. "...goblins. A man must have his hobbies, I think." Goblins? I liked growlers better.

"Indeed?" The skepticism in his voice is palpable, not that I can blame him. He regards me, his eyes looking me up and down discerningly. "Tell me, hobby-hunter, why would a sorcerer expend the effort to slay a pack of goblins, save a tree or two," his eyes flickered over pointedly at the weapon in his compatriot's hands, "and with a bow of all things?" He takes a step towards me as he named off each article. He was a pace away and I could see him much better now. His features are smoothly curved and lean, and his feet make no sound even as they step atop dried leaves. I know of very few individuals with that sort of stealth, and this one did it (from appearances anyway) thoughtlessly. His hazel eyes were sharp and his hair a pale gold. He looks every bit as regal as certain fictional races were thought to be in the olden tales taught to children before bed. Perhaps there was more to those tales than most thought.

I raise an eyebrow curiously. He called me a sorcerer, and with a casual manner that indicated some measure of familiarity. I felt a thought prickle the back of my mind, but the urgency of a response forced the thought to drift away. "I'm familiar with many weapons," I answer nebulously. I know I should answer honestly, but I also have no idea who this is, and he seemed the type to indulge in a little banter. At the very least, he didn't appear rushed in how he moved, slowly and with purpose from in front of me, around, and off to inspect the rapidly cooling corpses strewn about the copse. I turn my body and head to keep him in my vision, though I was consciously aware of the no less than three arrows (that I could see) pointed at me. If they took umbrage with my movement, they didn't make it known.

The stranger looks down and inspects one of the bodies with a distant gaze. His voice is dry with pragmatism as he speaks. "A point made _sufficiently_ apparent," he says, using the toe of his boot to turn the side-facing head of a dead goblin toward the sky. This goblin in particular had a perfectly round hole directly in the middle of its forehead. He turned and held out a hand to a fellow, the one who is holding my piece. The other steps over and lays the weapon in his outstretched hand. He accepts it without a glance. Instead his eyes are on me. "I have never seen a weapon like this before. It resounds like a sledge upon stone, and many times strikes dead those you point to with..." He eyes the corpse again. "...bolts smaller than a finger."

He holds the weapon out as if presenting some sort of damning evidence. But for his unspoken question, he reveals he has never heard it's like before. Though I realize something quite interesting. "Bolts," I repeat as a question. "You could see them?"

He gives a small, disdainful grin. "I see it appears that you know very little of we Elves," he says, punctuating all the right words to sound proud and irritated. He steps forward and looks me in the eyes. For the first time, I feel the weight of his presence. There is something there... I cannot place it, but it screams of a depth of knowledge that I did not expect. "There is very little we do not see."

He steps away and I follow him with my eyes.

"My name is Caranorion," He says with a look that indicates he feels obligated to tell me, though for what reason I cannot precisely divine. "And we would be poor captors indeed if we did not give you a chance to explain yourself _fully_ ," he says, turning with a sort of satisfied smile. "Which you may do at length with one of ranking much higher than myself." He waits for a moment, likely to let the words sink in before he turns and walks away uttering a short, foreign word to those under his command. I look between those poised to shoot and see the one closest to me, the first one I saw when I opened my eyes, tilt his head in the direction of his superior.

I understand the motion. _Walk_.

I glance between the face of this one and Caranorion's back before lowering my arms experimentally and stepping forward. They didn't say anything about keeping my hands raised.

Caranorion took the lead and the rest of his men follow after him, keeping me close to the front, but always too far to strike out at the man if I so wished. As we moved I noticed that the six Elves that had made themselves known, including Caranorion, were not the only ones. Six more yet join our party from... elsewhere. I know not. I had felt more eyes on me for some time but I had not thought so many. No wonder I felt so uneasy.

We walk for some time until we come before a clearing of sorts. Without the canopy to occlude it, the bright rays of the moon now shown down upon all. But it was ultimately unnecessary, for in the middle of the clearing, talking with his fellows stands an man of such curious luminescence that it almost appears as if the light of the moon radiated from his body. Yet for its light, it does not seem to erase the shadows cast by night on his fellows. I catch myself tilting my head at the sight of it.

The bright one turned before Caranorion had a chance to call out and the look on the bright one's face was joyful. _"Ah, Caranorion! Na-i faroth eithel?"_

I blink as Caranorion responds mutely, clasping the other man's arm. The bright one's words lower as he realizes, I suppose, that I am not here of my own free will. He gives me a glance with his eyes before returning them to Caranorion. Their voices remain low, the words passed between them too incoherent for me to discern, if indeed they were even speaking the common tongue I was familiar with. Presently Caranorion steps aside and allows the other to approach. Unlike Caranorion, this one's gaze is inquisitive and gentle, the smile on his face genuine and honest. "Greetings good fellow!" he says with a warmth I almost feel. "I am Glorfindel. My captain says you are to thank for eliminating a pack of rather pesky goblins. _And_ he says you're some manner of sorcerer." The smile on his face has me split between his fearing for his captain's sanity and already knowing the answer. "And before any lies are considered, know that I trust Caranorion with my life. He has no reason to deceive me and, as you might have already noticed," he lout a short laugh, "he doesn't joke."

I couldn't resist giving an assenting noise of agreement and nodding. If Caranorion took offense at the jab, he didn't show it.

"So," he continues, "I would have you tell me who and, if not a sorcerer, what you are. _And_ what your business in these woods is." The friendliness of his voice falters as he speaks and his grim intonation leaves little to interpretation.

I give my surroundings a glance and note that many a bow was nocked with an arrow. None were drawn or pointed at me, but any one of them could be fired at a moments notice. And if the fantastical tales told to children in the City were anything to go by, Elves were apex bowmen.

I return his hard stare. At the very least, the truth never _hurt_ anyone... Usually.

"You may call me Lazarus," I say. "And yes, I am 'some manner of sorcerer.' And additionally," I take a breath, "to clarify, I have no idea where I am."

I can't say I _expected_ them to laugh at me, but their laughter doesn't surprise me either.

Glorfindel's laughter though, is almost infectious. He collects himself unashamedly. "Ah forgive my humor, friend Lazarus," he apologizes, pronouncing my name slowly to make sure he did so correctly. "But I find it difficult to believe such a thing." His smile dims as he continues. "We have been tracked your trek north along the Bruinen for many days now. Anyone who travels as such seeks the Ford's crossing into Eriador."

Well... "I _was_ looking for a ford of some description, if indeed this river had one."

Glorfindel narrows his eyes. "Indeed. What for?"

I open my mouth to speak but find the answer as silly in my mind as I imagine it would sound should I speak it. But, ah, I've already opened my mouth. "Truly, I don't know," I say with an anxious chuckle. "It just struck my fancy." That was the truth. North was as good a direction as any.

Glorfindel's eyes narrow scrutinizingly. I doubted he believed me. It was a terrible excuse, even if it was true. And for their abrasiveness they did seem like pleasant creatures, these Elves. If I have to flee, I shan't want harm to come to them. Finally, after a short time Glorfindel speaks again, and when he does it is with a quiet self-assuredness. "I can tell as truly as I stand before you no lie has passed your lips."

I raise a brow at him. Eerie. Good news. But eerie. Perhaps he was simply just so capable of reading people, even complete strangers. Glorfindel turned to look Northward. "I should like to escort you, if I may, to the house of Elrond, son of Eärendil of Rivendell."

I was half tempted to bless him for sneezing, but I stow my sarcasm and simply nod. I know not of who either those people are nor of such a place, and I have a sneaking suspicion that that was what Glorfindel is looking for; that... spark of recognition in my eyes or a lack thereof. "I... should be grateful for your hospitality," I say with some wariness.

If it was a test, evidently I passed. Glorfindel nods, mostly to himself I think, and turns and speaks to his men. _"Mín úlime an Imladris!"_

Silently, like the wind, they turn and make their way northwards. The luminescent Elf turns back to me and gestures me on.

"Come, friend Lazarus. We're some ways from Rivendell. We should become familiar with one another and share stories to pass the hours away. What say you?"

I let out a breath, feeling the weight of my stress as a physical strain. Despite his rather pleasant manner, Glorfindel _was_ essentially holding me hostage. And despite his luminous disposition, it was not Light that spilled from him. Rather, perhaps, Light of a different kind... If nothing else it warrants study, as most everything I've seen since my arrival does; I will acquiesce to his request.

But I knew better than most that the Light, by itself was no assurance of righteousness. Call me a skeptic if you must.

Being a Dredgen will do that to you.

* * *

 **A/N: Well there's chapter one! I hope you enjoyed it! LotR buffs are encouraged to critique as needed any inconsistencies they see! I already have chapter two completed and chapter three is in the works. Look forward to those in the near future! Until next time, O reader mine!**


	2. Chapter 2: A Traveler's Plight

**A/N: And here's the predicted chapter two! But first, let me address some questions that were posed to me in the last chapter...**

 **\- Guest #1 says,** _"This is the most pathetic warlock I have ever seen, he let a bunch of unknowns take his weapons and hold him prisoner without any resistance, but hen that is what is expected of a Dredgen, their will is weak and the are easily swayed by the lightest breeze."_

 **While it may appear that I've nerfed the Guardian, do not assume that power scales as you imagine it would. Elfs are no joke in Tolkein's world. Also, being Dredgen has very little to do with weak wills. Rather, Dredgen's simply aren't content to blindly follow an ambiguously aloof god ;)**

 **\- Lautaro94 asks,** _"Great chapter interesting premise now I'll asked the question I think everyone has... where is his ghost?" **to which Raven adds,** "I agree with the person below me. Where is his ghost?"_

 **The answer is actually in chapter one, though it was a small line that you probably would have read over. It's not obligatory, but it's hardly hidden between the margins of text, so give it a once over again and see if you can find it!**

 **\- Marcellasnow231 says,** _"At some point, you may need to do some more research on the finer point of LOTR lore, like "never idly the leaves of Lorien fall," really mean. To put this line simply,the elves of LOTR are conservationists; they keep the trees green through the years until it is needed to cast off the old growth to make way for new growth. And that their resistance to change is what would cost them dearly as they fell to Sauron's deceit in their desire to arrest change."_

 **The truth is I'm still in the early process of deep diving into the Legendarium and learning everything I can from the wiki. All the while, I'm re-reading the LotR trilogy and in the process of reading through the Silmarillion. So, I'll get there eventually, worry not!**

 **Now, with those addressed, let's get onto the story shall we? Enjoy~!**

* * *

 _ **October 19th, 3018 of the Third Age.**_

The city of Rivendell was abuzz with energy that had not been seen in many years. Many had already, and many were yet to come from many miles and lands of Middle-Earth. The Dwarvish accompaniment who had arrived some weeks earlier was comprised of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain - representative of the King under the Mountain, Dain Ironfoot of the Dwarves and his son Gimli, along with a small contingent of guards who for their part minded their own business and remained out of sight of the Elves with whom they now shared proximity. Galdor, a messenger from Círdan of the Grey Havens had arrived last week. Legolas, son of Thranduil the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm. And Gandalf the grey, old wizard and member of the White Council that he was, arrived with grim tidings the morning before.

Elrond drew up a pitcher and poured a glass, filling the vessel half full with fresh wine, though his action was mostly by memory of muscle alone. His mind was elsewhere, beset as it was with the visions of what he had seen the night before. Born in the early years of the First Age, it was not inappropriate to say that Elrond had seen most everything there was to see of Middle Earth, and of the struggles that had shaped it into its current form. He was well versed in the powers that existed on Arda, and of those who were capable of using them to effect their will. His own not inconsiderable powers combined with the ring of power Vilya on his finger kept the city of Rivendell shrouded from the Enemy's sight, and imbued into it the energy and restfulness of magical proportions.

And yet for all his prowess he had not the cunning to foresee this turn of events. The Elf stepped out to his balcony. Beneath was a waterfall, the sound of which soothed his mind away from pain and irritation. It overlooked a great swath of the city, and he could, from that spot, see the winding mountainside path that was the main gateway into Imladris.

The old halls of Imladris were adrift with the sound of song, as those who dwelt within them did ever sing about the tales of old and of things to come. Elrond, son of Eärendil, oft called "Half-elven" for his lineage of both Edain and Eldarin (that is, Human and Elven) ancestors had walked these halls many times. He knew them by heart, for even if he were to spend a thousand years beneath the shadow of Barad-dûr _,_ he could never forget the stone walkways and gentle falls of the city he had built from nothing.

Indeed, Elrond could feel the weight of the world bear down upon him with the news Gandalf had brought; the Enemy's movements were cunning indeed to have drawn _Saruman the White_ into his foul company.

"Ne'er have I seen such an expression on your face but that you are most troubled, Lord Elrond."

The Elf turned and regarded his speaking guest. For all his tribulation at the Tower of Orthanc, the wizened old spirit was recuperating well in his care. "You'll forgive me, friend Gandalf if I don't consume a mighty feast of information without first pausing to allow it to digest." Truthfully, the turning of Saruman was a blow nearly too difficult to process. That one of the Istari would abandon his purpose on Middle Earth and join hands with Sauron was unthinkable. It was certainly unprecedented. And it put the Elves of Rivendell in a dangerous predicament. For while the Elvish port city was hidden to the prying eye of the Dark Lord, it was not so hidden to their former ally Saruman.

"Of course. Saruman's betrayal is a terrible blow. But we are safe for the time being. He has not yet perfected his breeding methods, and the pits beneath Isengard are not yet fully dug. It will be some time before he can raise a force strong enough to pose a threat to the West. The Dunelendings however would hear Saruman's call and flock to it, especially if his first move is to crush the vulnerable nation of Rohan before focusing his attention north."

"Thus Rivendell is safe because Rohan is not. That is not a comforting thought in either direction," Elrond mused dismally. More importantly, Glorfindel was carefully guiding the party of Hobbits in their quest to the city. The One called the black riders to it, and so to Frodo as the Ringbearer. There were few in Rivendell who could contend with the dark spirits of the Nine, but those who could had ridden out with Glorfindel, searching high and low for the Halflings across the countryside. It was fortunate that Glorfindel, of all of them, had been the one to find them first; he would get them to their destination safe and sound.

He could see the Ringwraiths closing in with his Elven eyes, yet they were some some distance off and could not precisely detect the presence of the One... yet. Gandalf was also keeping a weather-eye open, monitoring their journey intensely. "It will be a close thing. If both parties' pace remains steady, they will both meet at the Bruinen sometime tomorrow."

"Then we must hope the wind favors our side most," Elrond remarked. They lapsed into a sullen silence for some time, nothing but the sounds of the lapping sea against the harbor's stones, the rustling tree leaves and the singing of Elrond's people to soothe their hearts.

Presently Gandalf cleared his through and spoke. "Speaking of favors," he began. "About that which we touched upon last night..."

Elrond didn't have to think too hard about what the wizard was alluding to. "The Man, you mean?"

Gandalf nodded. "You say he is a sorcerer?"

Elrond was quick to hold up a hand. "I have only the word of Glorfindel, who himself has the word of his soldiers. They claim they saw him quell fires set by goblins with only his hands."

Gandalf's face hardened somewhat. "A sorcerer who slays goblins and undoes their destructive work... And a Man? Men do not possess the strength of spirit as the Elves do. It does not seem likely. All sorcery ultimately stems from the Enemy."

"Agreed," Elrond nodded. "His thoughts are his own; his mind closed from my sight. But it is not in darkness that his defenses lie, but in light that blossoms and blinds."

Gandalf groaned in surprise. "Even your prowess in _sanwe-latya_ could not perceive his true nature? Not even a glimpse of it?"

Elrond frowned, an occurrence more and more common on his face in recent years. He shook his head bewilderingly. "I confess I defer to lord Glorfindel's judgement. There is no lingering stink of the Enemy's power upon him. More than that I cannot say."

They lapsed into silence for some time before Gandalf spoke again. "I do not think it would trouble a guest of your lordship's be arranged to speak with me?" Gandalf asked, albeit a bit coyly.

"Of course." Elrond nodded with an equally coy smile though it vanished as soon as it appeared. "I have had careful watch kept over him during his stay, which I fear has not gone unnoticed; he has kept to himself within the high towers, consuming historical books of lore. He never leaves his room save to stargaze into the morning hours."

Gandalf frowned. "That _certainly_ doesn't sound like a servant of the Enemy," to which Elrond gestured with his wineglass in assent.

"Indeed. And he speaks with no one save those sent to call him to meals."

The wizard _hrrm-ed_ to himself and stroked his long, grey beard. He stood and stepped over to the balcony, withdrawing a pipe and tucking it into the corner of his mouth as he peered into the blue skies. "The stars have not yet shown themselves, but perhaps he will not take too great an offense at a social call."

* * *

I don't know what it is, but the smell of aged parchment, of old, dried ink is incredibly addictive, to say nothing of the _sounds_ the crinkling and sliding material make when shuffling them about. For me it is therapeutic. While others of my peers might enjoy engram decryption, the study of Vex datalaces, and the manipulation of glimmer, I enjoy a more archaic, medieval pastime... Reading old tomes.

Truth be told, when I had asked whether I would be permitted to read these Elves' historical records, I had expected to be denied; I had earned no such right, and I suspect Elrond - _lord_ Elrond - was trying to make up for the sudden seizure of my person and hijacking of my travel plans.

Not that I actually had any.

I don't think he believed me when I said all was well enough in my book, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. I also feared that asking to read their tomes, might make my suspicious presence-slash-origins a mite obvious, but so far Elrond hadn't pressed any questions. In fact, the Elf lord seemed to be content to leave me alone in my little corner of the city. During the day I study the written histories of Middle Earth. Once the first of many candles burns down to the base of the wick, I climb atop my small house's roof and lay there, tracing unfamiliar constellations for a familiar pattern to reveal itself.

This was the daily ritual that had gone undisturbed for almost two weeks; eleven days to be exact. I've honestly begun to wonder if they've forgotten I'm here...

But the knock at my door causes me to reconsider that notion. I look at the sundial on the railing of my balcony. It's not half-past three in the afternoon... and I've already eaten my breakfast, and they know I don't eat lunch... I lay the pamphlets in my hands back down on the desk and turn to eye the door. As if on cue, a silky voice called from the other side.

"Master Lazarus?"

Asking by name? Then it certainly wasn't for a meal. That wasn't their pattern. And if there is one thing I noticed about these Elves, it is that they _always_ followed the pattern. This is unexpected.

I regard the door for a moment, slowly standing up with enough noise to indicate my movements from this side. I step over to the door and reach behind my back with my left hand as I open it with my right. As I do, I see the graceful image of the young Elf page. Well, they all look relatively young anyhow. Those who looked to be getting on in years were actually at the end of their maturity; like Elrond, or his chief adviser Erestor, whom I have only met once in passing. This one is significantly younger to appear so youthful.

"Yes?" I ask as politely as I can manage. I can see there is something on the Elf's mind, but he is disciplined enough to leave it unsaid. "My Lord Elrond has requested your presence." He takes two steps back and gestures for me to follow with that familiar grace I've come to accustom with his race.

I take my time nodding and stepping out to follow him.

 _Grace..._

If there was ever one word that so perfectly encapsulated the Elves, it is _grace;_ their otherworldly motions. Like the quiet, distant ripples of a dark pond. Like the silent flight of an owl chasing down unwary prey. It set me on edge. In fact, the only familiar comparison I could make of them is to the regal beauty of a certain secret-keeper. It's eerie... The similarities that is.

We walked through the gently curving halls at a moderate pace, the fluttering of his robes and mine the only sounds to be hear beside the sound of our footsteps. Eventually he stops in front of a certain door-less frame and steps in. I follow obediently.

He takes three paces and stops, bowing his head with a gesture. "Master Lazarus, my lord Elrond."

I look past my guide and take note of the room and its occupants. The first thing I notice is Elrond, standing out as he tends to do in the middle of the room. The second thing I notice is the other character. Unlike the Elves, this one is an aged man of advanced years. He wore ashen grey robes with a matching coarse beard. But what drew my attention is his eyes. For his age, his eyes were very keen. Sharp, like a razor's edge. But his smile is alarmingly disarming.

Elrond spake first. "Ah, forgive me if I disturbed your seclusion."

I shake my head dismissively. "I am but a guest. So long as I take shelter beneath your roof, I am at your beck and call Master Elrond." Not for the first time am I thankful that among my peers I had the tact and tolerance to learn proper manners in the face of nobility.

Elrond gestured to his companion. "A notion I appreciate. Master Lazarus, this is Gandalf the Grey. I have no doubt you have heard of him."

Truth be told, I hadn't. But thanks to my laborious efforts studying Elvish lore, I knew that the man he called Gandalf was more commonly referred to by the Elves as _Mithrandir,_ an alias for the wandering pilgrim in the Elves' language, Sindarin, which I have yet to fully translate or memorize. Nevertheless I nod my head. I at least recognize the name if not the man himself.

"In passing only I'm afraid." I give a short bow which he returns.

"I trust your stay in Rivendell has thus far brought rest and comfort." It is a statement, but it is posed as a question.

I nod. "For the most part yes. Though any discomfort or unrest I have experienced is of my own making." Both Gandalf and Elrond seemed to smile humorously at this.

"Yes. The archivists have told me of your late night requests for records. I trust they too have been satisfactory," the elf posits.

"Very," I reply honestly. "I value knowledge above all else, and I must say, there was much I had not known before now."

"Good. That is very good to hear." Elrond said, though I'm not sure if he's speaking about my satisfactions or some other hidden meaning of which I am unaware. If Elves are anything like my true-Awoken acquaintances, then I'd be a fool not to wager on the latter.

"Now, to the reason I summoned you..."

Ah, here we go.

"There is a certain matter which has been brought to my attention that bids investigation," the Elf began, gesturing a seat at the table in the room, upon which were a few morsels of food and many books and scrolls. I look between him and the table before moving to claim a seat.

"I suspect I already know the question, but I'll answer as honestly as I can." And on that note, I am sincere. If the Elf, or the old man, who is purportedly a "wizard" of some esteem, are as keen as they appear, then lies or half truths would make me instantly suspicious to them. I would much rather retain access to their stores of knowledge while I'm still getting my bearings in this place. But of course, how _much_ I tell them is dependent on... _other_ factors.

I take a seat and Elrond takes his at the head of the table. Gandalf sits across from me, the image of a wizened old man at a table of old parchments and maps simply picturesque. I have to stop myself from smiling at the sight.

"Have you had anything to eat today, master Lazarus?" Elrond asked, playing the part of a host perfectly as I might expect.

"Breakfast, yes. I do not eat a noon-time meal often, though if you were to put some before me, I would not refuse," I say. I'm careful not to say anything that might offend. Ironically, most of my meals were in fact large dinners at night with light breakfasts in the morning. Lunch just never called to me.

"That is good to hear. I took the liberty of requesting a meal for we three before you arrived."

I nod my head thankfully. "I appreciate your forethought on my behalf, lord Elrond."

"When Glorfindel brought you here to Imladris, and before I sent him away on an urgent task, he described to me how his men suspected you were a practitioner of magic," Elrond began. "I would like to hear your account for his report."

So I was right. I had begun to suspect that there was some sort of stigma associated what these Elves called "sorcerers." For Caranorion had always uttered the word with an audible measure of contempt. Yet Gandalf, for all my research told me, is a wizard. Perhaps there is a categorical difference between the two... or perhaps there isn't.

"Well, I won't deny I have a limited knowledge of magic. But I suspect that your soldiers were most interested in my weapons," I explain. I had only seen any of them using swords and bows, and besides Glorfindel who seemed to literally radiate light, none displayed any propensity for magic (the legends of Elves from the Golden Age were apparently incorrect), so my gun must no doubt have seemed as magic to them.

Elrond nods and reaches over the table to brush aside a aged map parchment. Beneath lay my weapon. Elrond picked it up and I curse myself as I fail to stop my eyes from narrowing. I have no doubt Elrond noticed it, and even if he didn't, Gandalf certainly did.

"I presume you mean this?" he asks with a gesture to the device.

I slowly nod. "Yes, but please do be careful with it," I say rapidly. "It requires very little effort on the wielders part to hurt others or themselves with it." I say this not because I fear Elrond might turn the weapon on me, but because I do not want to see what color Elves bleed so soon into my time here. Elrond, for his part, holds the weapon across the palms of both hands gingerly, even before I say my warning.

"So I have been told. I have never seen such a weapon as this. Tell me, how does it work?"

I hesitate to answer, but decide I can at least explain the basics. I reach out with an open hand. "May I...?"And to my surprise, Elrond offers it like a gift without hesitation. "This is a gun." I unload the weapon and show them a single round. "This is a bullet. Inside this cartridge is a... an ingredient which creates a loud and violent burst of fire." I load the single bullet into the weapon. "This," I prime it while pointing with my finger, "is the hammer. When I pull the trigger, here, the hammer will slam forward, striking the rear of the bullet. This initiates a pyrotechnic reaction which is contained within the barrel of the weapon, here. With no where else to go, the energy pushes the bullet out of the barrel at speeds too fast for the human eye to see."

I let the hammer rest carefully and remove the bullet. "As you can imagine, an object traveling at such a speed would be able to pierce flesh as well as any arrow."

Elrond, despite my reservations, nods his head in understanding. "A fantastic weapon indeed," he says, though I can sense the wariness in his voice. "I had suspected it was of Dwarvish make, but..." He thinks for a moment. "What is the nature of the ingredient inside the bullet that creates fire?"

I consider for a moment... "I don't suppose you've heard of gun-, or rather, black powder?"

Elrond and Galdalf share a look, but there is no spark of recognition in either of their eyes.

"I see," I murmur. "Then even if I told you, I suspect you would not understand." I replace the weapon on the table in front of me, within reach, but still unloaded.

After some time Elrond nodded and reached over to ring a small bell. An aide entered a few seconds later carrying _another_ familiar item. My bow.

"While it is true that your weapon... _gun_ you say... may beyond the scope of my understanding at this time," Elrond admits, though it does not escape me the way his words indicate his desire to eventually learn such a thing, "I _am_ however quite familiar with bows."

He stands and takes the proffered bow from the aide who then leaves. Turning the thing over in his hands, I recognize the masterful eyes of a person who knew exactly what he was looking at and what it could do. Watching him, I feel as though if he were to decide to, he might be able to nock and fire an arrow through my skull with pinpoint accuracy before I could even think of dodging. Call it a sixth sense, but I could feel the trepidation of danger flood my body as I watched him handle the bowstring in a way that I hadn't felt even when he was handling my gun. To him, the gun was unfamiliar, but the bow is like an old friend.

Finally he turned his eyes to me. "Did you make this bow?"

To this question I can honestly answer, "No." I now note that on another table off to the side is my quiver with its arrows arrayed in neat lines across the table's mahogany surface. "Truth be told, I was gifted this weapon from the... Well, you wouldn't know her." From offering a priceless totem to a statue in honor of the former Wrath of the Queen of the Awoken in her stolen Throneworld? Yeah. I am _not_ opening that can of worms. "But no, I did not make it."

Elrond returns his eyes to the bow. There they remain for some time, a pregnant silence gestating for longer than I am comfortable with. Though, it seems I am not the only one who feels that way.

"My lord Elrond?" Gandalf prompted, causing the Elf to tear his eyes away. "Are you unwell?"

"No, no," the Elf assures. "I am well." He turns to me and gestures with the bow. "May I?"

I blink in surprise, but nod absently. Now my hackles rise in full. "Be my guest."

The Elf walked over to the table and picked up two arrows. One he held by the nock between the ring and little finger of his right hand while the other arrow is loaded onto the string. He aimed out of the balcony, over the harbor. He stared for many seconds through the scope of the bow before he pulled the string back. It is impressive that he could even do that. I don't know what the bow is made out of, but it's impossibly hard to draw, even for one such as myself. A normal human couldn't do it. So at the very least, the strength of Elves, or at least this particular Elf is at _least_ on par with my own...

In a blur of motion, he turned and loosed the arrow. I felt the cold of panic flood my veins as the deadly metal brushed against the hairs of my throat as it sailed past. In the beat of a heart and pulse of instinct, the gun is in my hand, bullet chambered, hammer primed and barrel to the Elf's brow. Our eyes are hard and our jaws set. The only sound to be heard is our steady breaths, the world around us continuing as it was, as if we weren't about to spill each others blood across the finely crafts floor, furniture, and walls. I feel as if a contest of wills is raging; if he drew again, I could kill him with the twitch of a single finger. yet I don't doubt his superhuman strength could draw the bowstring back far enough to kill me with his second stolen arrow before his brain turned to a scrambled mush. The second arrow is already nocked. All he needs to do is flex his muscles.

And yet...

He is looking for something; if he wanted to kill me with the first arrow, he very well could have done it. A master archer missing his mark? It's possible. An unfamiliar bow, and unfamiliar arrow, a sudden movement... He _could_ have missed.

But something in my gut told me it was for another reason. An _intentional_ reason.

I peer hard into his eyes, as he does to mine. Does he wish to see if I will kill him? Does he wish to know my temperament? My nature? My capacity for restraint perhaps? If so, he is a fool.

With a snarl I pill the trigger.

To his credit, Elrond barely flinches from the cacophanic bellow that erupted from the shot past his elongated ear.

It barely took a second for the door to burst open and armed guard with bows drawn to train them on me. Instinctively I reach out with my left hand towards them, a golden fire leashed upon the surface of my palm, licks of flame dancing between splayed fingers ready to billow forth at my command.

But they do not fire.

Elrond stands silent, his eyes never having left mine own. For several silent seconds, nobody moves.

...

The silence is broken by one of the enforcers. "My lord Elrond?" It is a querying address, for though danger is nigh, his master had yet to react in either body or voice.

Finally, Elrond moves. It is a slow wave of his hand to his guards with a definitive meaning. _Stand down._ Their distrust in me is wholly evident, but to their credit they do as instructed without a single second glance to the Elf lord. They quietly file out of the room. I have no doubt they will standby for any implication their master is in danger again.

Elrond lowers the bow and with careful measured steps walks over to a table closest to the door and places the bow upon a stand.

"Forgive me, master Lazarus," the Elf said with what I assume to be genuine apology in his voice. Yet his stance held no real regret. he turned to face me, or rather, face Gandalf who from his position is now behind me. "Satisfied?"

I turn and look at the old man who hadn't moved once since sitting down. He nodded. "Indeed I am, my lord Elrond," he said though his expression held no true satisfaction in it. "Sorcerer or not, a servant of the enemy would not have hesitated to kill _you,_ of all people, given the chance."

I raise a brow and turn back to Elrond as he crosses the room and returns to his seat. "I believe I am now more aptly aware of the situation." He gestures once again to my vacant seat. I look between him and the wizard hard, but I do not sit. Idly realizing my arm is still on fire, I clench my fingers into a fist and extinguish the flames thereon. The gun is useless. I only had enough time to load a single bullet when I realized the Elf lord was attacking. And if what Glorfindel and Caranorion said about Elven eyesight is true, then I doubted Elrond _hadn't_ seen the reloading action and be on the look out for it in the future.

I find myself emphatically irritated with all of this. "If I had known we were going to play games, I might have warned you that I possess a reciprocal disposition."

"The Enemy moves in cunning ways; ways, by nature, invisible to those of whom his will is set against."

I roll my shoulders and narrow my eyes. "What enemy?"

Elrond's head tilts curiously at me and I feel his eyes discerning me with every twitch. "A week and more of reading history and yet you ask, 'what enemy?' " The Elf lord's tone shifts, and his welcoming tone decays into a cold tone of disdain. He let the question hang in the air and gives me time to think. The only enemy of the Elves is some ancient being called Morgoth, but he was cast off of the Earth and imprisoned. The only other "enemy" was Sauron, a lieutenant of Morgoth's who was defeated at the end of the so-called "Second Age." Now, their only enemy is roving packs of goblins, orcs, trolls and the like. I can think of no obvious answer.

But to my rescue came Gandalf who reached a hand out to placate his companion. "I believe, my lord Elrond, that our guest is not as knowledgeable about goings on of Middle-Earth, the happenings of ancient days, or the subtleties of history that therein lie." Elrond looks to the man and I can see the emotion within him reduce to invisibility. But Gandalf gazes right at me with a knowing gaze that I don't think I like. I narrow my eyes but say nothing, intent on letting them continue.

Gandalf slowly brings his hands in front of him and folds them into each other. His shoulders hunch forward and his wizened features betray nothing. When he speaks it is with both knowing and unknowing... and a damn twinkle in his eye.

"In fact I suspect he is not from Middle-Earth at all."

* * *

 **A/N: And it starts to unravel already?! Haha, maybe! I have to say, I'm REALLY enjoying writing this story, so expect updates soon! Until then, feel free to drop a comment criticism or question in the box down below!**

 **Peace!**


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